A Choice
by the-speed-reader
Summary: But everything changes, and he knows that they can't go back. / Dramione, one-shot.


_Yeah, I have no idea what the hell this is._

 _Enjoy, hopefully._

* * *

" _I could not tell you if I loved you the first moment I saw you, or if it was the second or third or fourth. But I remember the first moment I looked at you walking toward me and realized that somehow the rest of the world seemed to vanish when I was with you_." -Cassandra Clare

* * *

Draco draws his hand up, wiping his mouth with his palm before spitting back into the sink. He repeats the process three times before sinking to the ground, curling up with his knees to his chest and his back to the wall, pressing his forehead to his jeans. His head is pounding, so he closes his eyes tightly, just sitting there, waiting – for what, he didn't know.

He can still feel the bile in the back of his throat, but he forces it back. Even after throwing up twice, he can feel that sickening feeling in his sick threatening to force up again. The sink above swishes as the drain makes a _plinking_ sound as water runs through the pipes as a result of another student using a sink in another bathroom. He, however, is alone; he'd chased a few first years out of the Slytherin bathroom before emptying his lunch into one of the three sinks in the room, having refused to lower himself with the dignity of throwing up with someone else.

He sits there for what could be a few moments or a few hours; his chest is heaving as he forces himself to try and stay calm as he talks himself down from another panic attack. He'd been having a lot of those lately, ever since – no. He doesn't want to talk about the mission; he doesn't want to even have the tiniest of thoughts about the mission that he had been assigned, and he sure as hell isn't going to have yet another breakdown in the Slytherin common bathroom. Normally, he's got the privacy of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, but today, there had been a gaggle of second and third years there, fooling around with only Merlin knows what.

A strong breath of air escapes from his lips, blowing against his jeans. He knows that he should move before someone sees him, but he can't; it was as if the entire world was collapsing in one him. Being triggered into a panic attack was caused by anything from someone in a dark clock brushing up against him in a crowded hallway to just the memory of what had been done to him in the Malfoy household with the Dark Lord present.

He can feel himself start to hyperventilate again, so he forces his mind blank. Forces everything out, thinking of nothing but the sound of the water dripping above, one drop at a time – _one,_ he thinks, _two, three, four_ …

It's on the twentieth drop or so that he hears the door creak open, and he forces himself to lower his breathing and remain absolutely quiet; he was huddled in a corner that couldn't be seen unless you came down next to the very last stall in the end, but almost no one comes down there.

"Draco?" he hears, soft and quiet, and he can feel his pulse stuttering to a halt. No – _she_ couldn't see him like this. He hated when she saw him like this, as the broken boy he hid beneath the surface rather than the dashing Slytherin prince that he presented during all other times.

"Go away," he mutters, refusing to look up. But he hears _her_ footsteps get closer and he tugs his knees closer to his chest, digging his fingernails into the fabric of his cloak.

Then her hand is on his knee, rubbing a thumb there. He can hear the rustle of her robes as she bends down, the tips of her shoes touching his as she sits cross-legged in front of him. "Draco," she says again, keeping her voice quiet. "Look at me."

He refuses. She can't see him like this; hell, she shouldn't even be down here. He echoes this thought to her, trying to keep his voice as even as possible, but it breaks.

Her hand leaves his knee then, and for a moment, he thinks she's going to leave. But then her warm palm is on his cheek, gently pushing his head up. This time, he doesn't resist; he turns his head onto her hand, silver eyes meeting chestnut ones. One of her curls had fell in front of her face, lightly obstructing anyone's view of her face if someone were to walk in a see them like this.

Hermione Granger looks at him, at his shaking form, and her eyes search his for answers to the thousands of questions he can see forming in her mind. "What happened?" she asks briskly, wasting no time. "Was it Nott again? Snape? Ron?"

He ignores the flash of envy that goes through his chest at her use of Weasley's first name and instead shakes his head, eyes darting to the door. "You – you shouldn't be in here. Anyone could walk in any moment, and see you –"

"Zabini's guarding the door," she tells him. "He fought me when he saw you running into the bathroom. And I borrowed Harry's cloak; Draco, no one is coming in here. It's just you and me."

He lifts his head out from her hand, wiping his palm on his jeans as he reaches for her. His palm cups the back of her neck and he leans closer, dipping his head onto her collarbone. For a few moments, he just sits there, breathing her scent (a dash of those peppermints that she likes to chew and a hint of the parchment that she must have been buried deep in before Zabini had caught her) and waiting for the last effects of the panic attack to leave his mind and body.

She had always been a calming effect on him; whenever he had a panic attack, or she an anxiety one, they would find each other no matter what time of day or night. It had been tricky, at first; a secret relationship had its own allure, that was no doubt, but one between the son of a Death Eater and the daughter of Muggles? That, in its own right, was an entirely other level of insanity. It had taken him a while to come to terms with his feelings for the third part of the famously named Golden Trio, and it had taken her even longer.

But after months of (dating? Screwing around?) they hadn't put labels on what they had, and he hadn't wanted to. She was the one thing that he could count on now, with everything else that was going on. This affair between them, this fragile, terrifyingly breakable thing, was the one thing that he could not afford to screw up. And he wouldn't – as long as he did the Dark Lord's wishes, and no one ever found out. Zabini was the only one he could trust; after the other boy had caught him in the midst of a panic attack with Draco gasping _Hermione, Hermione, Hermione,_ Zabini had been sworn to secrecy. The other boy had agreed, and besides, Draco was pretty sure that his fellow sixth year harbored a crush on that loony Ravenclaw girl.

But he couldn't loose Hermione; he didn't think that he would be able to survive.

He pulls away then, pressing a light kiss against her collarbone. She wrinkles her nose and he tilts his head. "What?" he asks, the flicker of amusement tearing through him.

She raises her eyebrows. "Your breath smells," she tells him matter of factly, and he swears, turning to spit in the sink again. He can feel her hovering behind him as he rinses out his mouth, waiting for him to finish, and when he turns around she's holding out a tiny mental box with small white pills inside to him. He raises an eyebrow, and she rolls her eyes. "They're Muggle breath mints. Haven't we got past this? I'm not going to poison you, for Merlin's sake."

He takes on, popping it in his mouth, and his expression twists into one of disgust. "That's revolting," he hisses, moving to spit it out, but she narrows him with a glare.

"Take it, or I'm not kissing you. That's a promise."

He swallows the pill, sticking his tongue out at her to show that he'd done it. She nods, smirking at him before turning, knocking on the door three times. The door opens, revealing Zabini's slightly worried face.

"You alright?" he asks, directing his question towards Draco. Draco nods, locking eyes with the boy, silently thanking him. Zabini's eyes drift towards Hermione and she nods to, though she voices her thanks out loud.

Hermione pulls what looks like nothing from her pocket, but then she tosses it over her shoulders, making everything from her neck down disappearing from sight. She steps towards the door, clearly making her intent to leave, but he catches her wrist.

"Wait," he whispers, keeping his voice low. "Why don't – why don't you just stay?"

Her eyes lock with his. He knows it's possible for her to stay and not get caught, at least on the Slytherin end. Zabini's his only roommate, so no one else would come through their doors. "But what if Harry –"

He rolls eyes, tugging her towards him. "I think that Potter can live without you for one night; besides, wouldn't you rather be with me?" She hesitates for a moment; there were always risks when she spent the night, but if anyone else saw she was absent from her bed they would assume that she was simply in the library. But after today, he wanted her with him. "Please," he lowers his voice, keeping it so Zabini can't hear.

She rolls her eyes. "If you insist," she jokes, tossing the clock over her entire body. She vanishes from sight, and he follows Zabini into a near empty common room. There are only a few first years lingering by the fireplace, probably playing with some little game of theirs. He shoots Zabini another silent _thank you,_ and the other boy nods, gathering up a few books on the couch before exiting the dormitory.

He reaches his and Zabini's room with no interference, and closes the door with a heavy _thud._ He crawls onto his bed as she whisks the clock off her shoulders, setting it onto his nightstand before crawling in with him. He faces her, their knees touching as he reaches to tuck her curls behind her ear.

"There," he whispers. "Now we're alone, without that dreadful Zabini."

She rolls her eyes again at his casual, joking dismissal of his best friend before reaching to cup him behind the neck, pulling herself closer as she rubs her fingers against the tufts of hair there. His lips meet hers in a slow kiss, the kind of kiss that always sends a warm sensitivity pooling in his stomach. He reaches under her robes, slipping the back of her tee shirt and stroking the soft skin at the small of her back. He runs his tongue along the dip of her lower lip, unwilling to tear himself apart from her.

They break apart after a few moments, with him dipping his forehead to hers. "I love you," he murmurs, one of the many declarations he had made since seeing her that he thought he never would in his lifetime.

A small smile flickers across her features. "I know," she whispers back, tugging him closer again. "I know, I know, I know." She captures his lips with hers once more, stroking his thumb against the back of his neck.

They fall asleep like that; curled up as close as they possibly could to each other, holding one another tightly in their arms, as if they never wanted to let go.

* * *

But everything changes. She leaves with Potter and Weasley, scheming against the Dark Lord, and he's torn between utter relief that she hadn't come back to the danger of Hogwarts for the seventh year and the urge to strangle her two companions for taking her away from him. He's called back to the manor, where he waits for the Dark Lord's orders.

Everything changes, and he knows that they can't go back.

* * *

He's heard that woman's screams for a week; heard Bellatrix scream cries of _Blood-traitor_ and _worthless_ and _no better than a dirty muggle._ He hadn't known Professor Burbage well. When he was a child (because he was no longer a child, none of them were) he, and the rest of the Slytherin house, had shared the view that her Muggles Studies class was little more than a joke. No, less than that – it was purely the laugh of the school, with even McGonagall dismissing the class. It wasn't a requirement until the later years, and a well-written letter from his father had allowed him to get out of taking that class.

But her screams; he would never forget her screams, no matter how long he lived. And seeing how the events of the times were turning out now, his lifespan had the likelihood of being dramatically shortened. She had screamed for several days and nights, and it never stopped; at one point, the Dark Lord had sent a _Muffalo_ towards the chambers in the dungeon, and the screams had stopped. Draco had never thought he would be relieved with the sight of the Dark Lord casting magic.

But now – now, she was dangling above the table, her blood dripping down onto the wood in front of him, and he felt sick. She was perfectly silent; unconscious most likely, but he could not see if her eyes were closed from this angle. From his view though, he could see most of her injuries. Both her ankles were slashed open, as well as one of her arms. Her clothes, while always prim and proper at Hogwarts, were torn to shreds. She looked, quite simply, like the exact victim of her circumstance, and very well likely dead; however, Draco knew better. He knew that the Dark Lord would not have held a dead woman over them without another agenda. He was going to use her as an example, and Draco swallowed thickly, forcing the bile back down his throat.

He would not throw up – he _could_ not throw up. If he did, the Dark Lord would more likely have him killed. After all, he was eighteen years old, and one of the younger Death Eaters. Draco knew that if the Dark Lord wanted, he would have him replaced in an instance; the only reason he was not dead yet after that disastrous fiasco of Dumbledore's death that happened last summer was because he was seen as the Slytherin Prince – he was going to be used to influence his classmates when the time came for the inevitable takeover of Hogwarts. He was merely a puppet in this scheme, and Draco hated how helpless he felt. His mind flashes to Hermione, to _before,_ but he pushes it out of his mind. If the Dark Lord learned of any inkling of his feelings…

The Dark Lord stood then, and everyone stiffened in his or her seats. Draco's nails dug into the wood of his chair again, driving a splinter into his palm. He did not wince, despite the pain; any sign of weakness was just asking for death. He watched, keeping his expression as blank as he possibly could, as the Dark Lord stepped around, speaking of Potter and twin wands. He watched as the Dark Lord demanded his father's wand; and watched as his father gave him the wand and slipped up, making a fool of himself.

He was jolted out of his thoughts as the woman above spoke, her voice harsh. "Please," she pleads, her voice directed towards Snape. The man in question keeps his face harsh, devoid of all pity. "Severus – we were friends."

The Dark Lord raises his wand, twists his wrist, and mouths the fateful words; a flash of green light appears before and the woman's body drops to the table. Draco ignores the terrifying jolt that goes through his chest. He moves his hands back, watching like the others, as the Dark Lord presents Nagini with her dinner.

He feels sick – dirty to his very core.

And that night, when sleep finally comes, he imagines it was Hermione up there instead of the professor and wakes up with tears on his cheeks, screaming into his pillow.

* * *

When he comes home for Easter break, he can sense that something terrible is going to happen before it does. He can feel it in his bones, and he's _terrified._

But when he hears that the Snatchers have brought Harry Potter and two others to the mansion, he knows that it's _her_. His aunt calls him down, her voice cackling throughout the halls.

She holds Potter with her wand to his throat, and asks, "Well?" Draco had always hated the sound of his aunt's voice; it had always been terrible and cruel, but now, his hate for her had increased by a thousand. He tries to keep his face blank. He'd learned much about lying since the darkness had settled into his household, he can't keep his fists from clenching at his side. And while he could like nothing more than to sell Potter out to the Dark Lord, he knows that Hermione would be killed in the process. He can feel her presence behind him, struggling against her captor's too harsh grip.

He remembers what he told himself all those months ago, sitting in that bathroom, before everything had gone to hell. He knows that he cannot loose her. He would not survive it.

So he lies: "I can't be sure." He feels Lucius grip the back of his neck, whispering a warning. Bellatrix leads him closer to Potter, forcing the boy on his knees and Draco is forced to look him dead in the eye. Potter's face is swollen, but it's undeniably him; Draco's heart pounds, and he feels sick. That threatening swirl of anxiety threatens to escape, but he forces it back down.

"I don't know," he forces out, and he slinks back, stepping away from his aunt and father. Draco hovers by his mother, eyes darting to face Hermione. He can see it in her eyes; she's terrified. She knows what his aunt does to people like her, but he forces the bile back at the thought. If he can just trick them around for a second, maybe he could get her out…

But no. He doesn't know what she thinks about him now. He doesn't know if she still trusts him. But before he can make a decision, his aunt commands an order to throw the boys in the dungeon. Draco watches, fingers curled around his wand hidden in the inside pocket of his coat, waiting for an opening.

He doesn't care anymore; if Hermione was left alone with Bellatrix, the woman would kill her.

Bellatrix tosses Hermione against one of the marble columns, and she crumbles with a sickening crack. He surges towards her, but his mother catches the back of his coat; when he meets her gaze, her eyes are warning.

"Do not mess with this," his mother hisses. "Do you hear me, Draco? No matter what this girl is to you, you cannot mess with this."

Shock flashing through him, but understanding passes through her eyes. She had known; she had known that he was different, that he had changed, but hadn't known why. Now – now, she does.

He only hopes that his mother forgives him for what he must do. Because he must save Hermione; he has to.

Hermione screams when Bellatrix takes a knife to her arm, and it sends terrifying jolts down his spine. He draws his wand, aiming it at his aunt, but he doesn't get the chance to make the first move; the bloody chandelier falls from the ceiling – right above the pair of them. Bellatrix shrieks, leaping out of the way, but Draco jolts forward, pushing Hermione out of the line of fire, tumbling to the ground.

His heart is pounding in his chest as Potter and Weasley burst into the room, carrying wands of guards that they have most likely disarmed. He sees the horror on the boys' faces when they see him wrapped around the unconscious Hermione, but there's no time to think about it before he closes his eyes, holds Hermione tight, and disapparated.

* * *

He's barely got time to catch glimpse of their surroundings (one of the Malfoy's unused houses, far away from the Manor) before he's scrambling his fingers at Hermione's throat, searching for a pulse.

"Hermione," he begs, voice cracking. "Please, Hermione, wake up – please, please please –"

She groans, rolling her head. His eyes flicker open, and she blinks at him.

"Never thought I'd see the day Draco Malfoy would beg," she whispers, and he wraps his arms around her, pulling her close to his chest.

"Merlin," he gasps. He's the one shaking now, his fingers trembling uncontrollably. "I thought I lost you."

She sighs, licking her lips. "You almost did, you bastard," she tells him, but her words have no heat to them.

 _She's safe,_ he thinks, and he doesn't ever want to let her go. He doesn't want to ever go back – she's safe, and that's all that matters. She's safe.

He couldn't go back.

Now, it was time to form a new plan.

* * *

 _Thoughts? Yeah, I know, crappy ending. I suck at writing endings._


End file.
